Matchmaker Chronicles Book 2
by LadyKailitha
Summary: There is only one thing Liya Mason loves more than trouble, and that's matchmaking. With two successful matches under her belt, she sets her sights on her other brother-in-law and his police officer friend. Quite sure that they will suit each other. Mystrade with background Johnlock. Sequel to Matchmaker Chronicles Book 1. (go figure) You should read that first.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello! I know I should be working on The Great Desolation and I am. It's almost ready to go to the awesomest beta in the world, old ping hai. I am also aware that I have other sequels I should be working on first but this just got into my head and wouldn't leave.**

**This is my first Mystrade, so be kind please.**

* * *

Greg thought he was having a good day. He had done all his paper work. He had a juicy case that would interest Sherlock. Anderson was in counseling that had been ordered for his return to work and wouldn't be reporting to duty for at least another week. It wasn't that he was a bad bloke, but Greg, having been on the wrong side of an affair, had little patience for those who cheated. Even if Anderson hadn't cheated since The Fall.

When he walked into his office, he thought that things were looking up. There, sitting on his desk like those dames from the old detective stories he read as a boy, was a buxom red-head. She wore a red pinstriped pencil skirt with matching waistcoat. Her blouse was a black frilly number that looked as expensive as hell. Her shoes were black pumps with red soles. The whole outfit probably cost more than he made in a year.

He instinctively straightened his tie and was about to clear his throat when she brushed her hair back with her left hand, revealing a ring on the appropriate finger. He sighed and shuffled in.

"How can I help you?" he asked, throwing the file he had just gotten from the medical examiner on his desk behind her.

She stuck her hand out and said with a smile, "Liya Mason. I'm here about your most recent case."

"The artist?" he asked. When she nodded he swore. "The Liya Mason? The famous painter?"

"That's me. Are you a fan?" she laughed.

"God, no. My ex-wife was, though. She'd kill me if she knew I was speaking to you."

Liya laughed again. "How friendly was the breakup?"

Greg frowned. "Not very. Why?"

A grin split her face. "How would you like to make her green with envy?"

"Okay..." he hedged, suspicious. His cop radar was going off.

"I'm doing a painting of Oliver Cromwell and Charles II. And you would be perfect for Cromwell."

Greg rocked his head back in shock. It had to be a trick of some sort. Or there was a nasty catch. Not being Sherlock and able to deduce it, he merely asked.

"No catch, I promise. You get revenge on the bitch and I get my Cromwell. It's a win-win situation."

"I suppose I can do that, but we are really off topic. You said you came here about my case, not to acquire a model for your work."

"Tell me she didn't," said the voice from the doorway. Greg turned around to see someone who looked achingly familiar. He had dark, curly hair, broad shoulders and piercing, intelligent blue eyes.

"And you are?" Greg said in gruff tone, crossing his arms over his chest. The man smiled charmingly and Greg was almost there, it was on the tip of his tongue. Who this stranger resembled.

"Her husband."

"Well, Mr Mason-" The stranger cut him off.

"Holmes. My name is Holmes. Sherrinford Holmes to be exact." Greg ran a hand over his face. And there it was. He was the perfect blend of Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Oi, now see here..." he said with the strain of a man whose patience was wearing thin, but again this man cut him off.

"I see you are acquainted with my younger brothers, but be rest assured I am not here to make your job harder."

Greg shook his head in disbelief. That's what Mycroft had said after the second or third kidnapping and look at how many problems the politician had caused over the years. "Holmes" was synonymous with "trouble" as far as Greg was concerned. The man laughed. It was a clear, bright sound and reminded the detective of the few times he made Mycroft genuinely laugh.

"They may be enormous pains in the arse, but they are good lads. Now, about your case..." Sherrinford said.

"Right. How can I help you? I take it Ms. Mason knew the victim."

Liya smiled. "Sherlock said you were clever."

"I very much doubt he said anything of the sort. He calls me an idiot on a very regular basis."

"Aww, I assure you he says some very nice things about you to us. What was he saying only the other day, Sherry?"

"Hmm...that you were the best Scotland Yard has to offer," Sherrinford replied.

Greg laughed. "Well, I'm not sure that's a compliment, considering how he feels about us, but thanks." He moved around his desk and sat down in his chair with a sigh.

"So, Ms Mason, were you friends with Miss Jensen?"

Liya blushed. "Um...no. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, we were more like enemies, if you will."

"So you were rivals then?" Greg inquired.

"Rivals is such a mild term, but if you prefer it, then yes, we were rivals."

"And when was the last time you saw the victim?" Liya exchanged a glance with Sherrinford that told Greg volumes. He ran his hands over his face in frustration. "Let me guess; you were the last person to see her alive, weren't you?"

"Well, other than the killer obviously," she hedged.

"Ms Mason-" Greg growled.

"Please call me Liya, Detective Inspector," she told him.

And this day had been going so well... "Liya, you do you realize that not only have you complicated matters exponentially, but you have insured that I cannot go to Sherlock for help on this case. Not if I want it prosecuted."

"Oh." She hadn't even thought of that. "Oh dear."

"Does John know you?" Greg asked, hopeful.

"Well, sort of. I went to uni with him and have recently become reacquainted."

"How recently?" he pressed. If he could get John, then Sherlock could solve it behind the scenes via his flatmate and no one would be the wiser.

"Last month. We had been talking online a bit before that. We invited him to our annual party we throw every year."

"Wait…this was a month ago?"

Liya nodded.

"I think I was invited. Mycroft asked me to come, but I already had plans to go out with some old Hendon mates."

"Pity you couldn't make it. It was lots of fun," Liya said with a wink. Sherrinford rolled his eyes. His idea of fun and his wife's were two completely different things.

"And by fun she means matchmaking," her husband drolled from the doorway, having still not made it fully into the room.  
"Matchmaking?" Greg asked, confused.

"Well, clearly Mary and John were with the wrong people. John needed Sherlock for many reasons, including that ridiculous desire for danger and adventure. Mary needed someone to sit at home and have long discussions about books and telly shows. So I hooked her up with

Sherlock's friend Victor. Positively charming young man. Well…mostly. He did put it wrong-footed with John when they met, but they're over that now."

Greg cut her off when she stopped for breath. "Enough! The fact of the matter is that you don't know John nearly as well you know Sherlock, yes?"

"Yes. Good. As long as he gives his 'word' that Sherlock will stay clear of this case, I can bring him on as a medical consultant."

"And of course if Lockie were to just happen to find the file and told his flatmate who was the culprit was," Sherrinford said, "and John told you, there is no way that anyone could say that Lockie unduly influenced the evidence."

"Exactly. Wait…Lockie?" Greg blinked bewildered. "Lockie as in Sherlock? You call him Lockie?" And then he just started to laugh.

"He doesn't like it much. My likes to tease him about it, but never around others lest Lockie call him his nickname."

"'My?' Mycroft?"

"See, you are clever, Detective Inspector," Liya told him.

"Oh, I know that. I just don't believe that Sherlock said that I was. Am. Whatever."

They laughed.

"Well, Ms Mason, if you give your statement to my sergeant. We'll get back to you."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," Liya said, sliding off his desk. She turned and shook his hand.

"My pleasure." He waited until she got to the door to add, "Oh and I can't be your model until the case is over with as well."

She screeched and stomped her foot. Sherrinford laughed as he watched his wife stalk toward Sally Donavon's desk.

"You know," he said turning back to Greg, "I think you are the only person in years besides myself to have out-foxed the slyest vixen I know."

Greg just smiled.

"I'll be seeing you around, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

And Greg was left with the feeling that he had fallen down the rabbit hole. He shook his head. _I fell into the hole years ago when I met a drug addict named Sherlock Holmes. I just met the Mad Hatter and March Hare is all. He laughed. What did that make Sherlock and Mycroft then? The Cheshire cat and the caterpillar respectively_. He then wondered about John and where he fit in the metaphor and decided he should stop while he was ahead. He had work to do, after all.

* * *

It turned out to be only a two for Sherlock on the excitement scale. He looked at the file John had "accidentally" left on the coffee table when he went up to bed.

"It was the intern," Sherlock told Greg when he came to pick up the file. "He was smuggling drugs in some of her lesser works. She found out and confronted him. Then it was wham! lights out for Hannah Jensen. Dull!"  
Sherlock huffed and threw himself on the couch in a snit. John just chuckled.

"And I think that's all you're going to get, Greg. Do you need me for anything else? Or us rather?"

"Nope. Now we know the direction to go in, we should wrap it up in no time at all."

"Good," John said with a smile, and then he went to sit on the couch at Sherlock's feet. As Greg turned to leave he saw John start to massage the curly-haired detective's soles and Sherlock's body shuddered as it released the tension.

Liya was right, they did make a good couple. Ever since he divorced Emily, he hadn't gotten around to dating much and envied Sherlock and John their deep, abiding love. He wished for something like that. For someone like that. He sighed.

As he got to the street he pulled out his mobile phone and dialed. "Hey, we're just wrapping up the case, when did you want me to come to your studio?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hey everyone! Another chapter thanks to my muse heading into overdrive this weekend.**

**Thank ever be to old ping hai, who is my awesome beta!**

* * *

Greg wasn't sure what to expect when he showed up at her studio in Soho, but it wasn't this. It was a small space with concrete walls. All round were large white sheets, splattered with paint. Canvases, some blank, ready to be transformed, others in various states of completion. Sitting in the middle of all this chaos was Liya.

She had her hair pulled back in a messy do and what seemed like a half a dozen different brushes stuck in it. She wore old, beat-up jeans and a flannel shirt; over the top of that was a large apron. The whole ensemble was speckled head to toe with paint.

Greg gulped, suddenly nervous. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he should just tell Emily that he met the great Liya Mason. That would be enough of a revenge. He didn't need to do this. Yes, he'd just leave and that would be that. But as he was backing up he knocked over a spare easel, making a large clatter.

Liya turned around. Seeing who it was she jumped up. "Greg! It's so good to see you! I'm so glad you agreed to this. I think you'll make a _fantastic_ Cromwell. Come. Come inside."

Greg blushed and took a few tentative steps toward her. She rushed over to him and grabbed his arm. She dragged him over to the canvas she had set up, which was massive. Greg figured it was at least five feet across.

"Okay, um…well. I suppose before we get too far into this, I should find out what exactly this painting is going to be. I mean, I know it's got Cromwell and Charles I, but I want to make sure the subject matter is something I'll be comfortable with," Greg muttered as he looked at the floor, feeling like a bashful school boy.

"Oh!" Liya hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Oh my god! I'm sorry! I should have realized. Of course you need to know that. I just get so caught up that I forget that others might feel uncomfortable."

Greg relaxed a little, some of the tension bleeding from his frame. He nodded. "Yeah."

"It's going to be the scene when Cromwell comes to the Tower of London to inform the former king of his impending death. And while in the finished painting Charles will be naked with but the barest sheet covering him, the model will have pants on under the sheet. It's more for the comfort of the model, to be honest. He's a bit shy."

"Will he be here today?" Greg asked, wondering who the mysterious other model was.

"Oh no. He's got to work. Besides, I'm going to sketch the two of you separately to get the positions the way I want them. Then when it's time to paint, I'll bring the two of you together."

He looked at her confused.

Liya sighed and rolled her eyes. "You are both busy men with unpredictable schedules; this way I can do the work and not have to worry about when I can get the two of you together for a while."

Greg blushed. "Well, I've got about six weeks of time off available to me, so if you need me to, I can take a week or so off. You just need to tell me beforehand so I can request it." _What are you thinking?_ his brain cried out. To be honest, he wasn't even sure himself, but there was some part of him that really want to commit to this. And not just to get back at his ex-wife either. Liya just seemed so passionate about this painting that it was contagious.

Her jaw dropped and she stared at him in shock. "You mean that?" The wheels in her head were whirling out of control with possibilities. Oh, the possibilities.

He shrugged. "If you think it'll help…" he trailed off.

Suddenly he was being hugged by the short red-head. "Thank you! Thank you! So much, it means a lot to me." Greg awkwardly patted her back, unsure what to do. After all she was married and he was single.

"That bitch must have dumber than a box of rocks to let a charmer like you get away," Liya told him as pulled away from the hug.

"She claimed it was the job."

Liya rolled her eyes. "Git. Well, I think what you and Sherlock do is fantastic."

"Thank you. I think so, too."

"All right, let's get started."

She spent the better part of an hour trying to get Greg into the position she wanted and then another hour sketching out Greg's basic form. Silence reigned in the studio as she worked. The quiet was broken by his phone shrilling loudly.

"Shite! Can I get that?" he asked, not daring to move unless she said.

Liya merely waved her hand. That was all Greg needed as he dived for the device.

"Hello?" As he listened to the person on the other end his shoulders began to slump. "Can't this wait? I'm busy, Emily."

The red-head merely watched, not even raising her eyebrow askance.

"We've been over this. Dozens of times. You can't get blood from a stone."

"No. Oh, hell no. You can fuck off. You cheated on me, remember? If your current boy toy can't keep you in the 'lifestyle' then you should have been faithful. I was _good_ to you."

There was a long pause and Greg's face grew darker.

"Oh that's rich coming from you and you know it. So, you're spying on me. She's Sherlock's sister-in-law, if you must know."

He ran his fingers through his hair. "No. It's not like that. I'm doing her a favor."

Greg's face became a veritable thunder cloud.

"Fuck off." He pressed the button as hard as he could. He looked up at the woman who had witnessed the whole thing. "It was more satisfying when you could slam the receiver down."

Liya laughed. "That's certainly true."

Greg looked down at his feet, "I'm just sorry you had to hear that."

She patted him on the shoulder, "Come on. Let's go get some lunch. And maybe a stiff drink or three."

The detective gave a weak laugh. He grabbed their coats as she washed up. There was nothing she could about the paint in her hair, but she managed to get the worst of it on her hands and face.

He helped into her coat first; it was an old trench coat that made his like decent in comparison. He then put on his. As they walked out to the street he asked,

"So what's with the old coat? I thought the Liya Mason would have something a lot nicer."

She laughed. "I use to bring my posh coats until I ruined one too many with paint or thinner."

"Gotcha," he said with a grimace. He didn't want to think about how much she had spent on coats before she wised up. Probably more than he made in a year or two.

They reached a small cafe and went inside. They ordered and talked while they waited.

"So, what did the bitch want then?" Liya asked.

"The usual. More money. Accusing me of cheating on her. Which, considering we haven't been married in three years is kinda impossible. I think she just doesn't want to see me happy with anyone else."

"So, you're straight then?" And if he was, there went her plans out the window in a hurry. Though Sherlock had managed to bend John, so anything is possible.

"Not exactly…" he trailed off, his ears tinging pink.

"Oh?" Liya was more than a little curious now.

"Before I met Emily I would have said I was gay. She liked to tell people she managed to make me switch teams. Which really should have been my first clue she wasn't good for me."

"I'll say. So, you're bi, then?"

"Kinda. I still appreciate a good female form," he nodded her direction and she blushed, "But men turn me on." _Especially men in tight three-piece suits_, his mind supplied helpfully.

"Thank you for the compliment. It's always nice to hear I can still turn heads, even at my age."

"You're welcome. If you weren't married, I think I could have made a decent go of it," he told her with a wink.

She laughed, "Good to know. How long have you known Sherlock?" she asked changing the topic.

Greg raised a questioning eyebrow at the sudden shift.

"Well, I want to get to know any man who can tolerate dear Lockie for more than five minutes."

This time the detective laughed. "I'm not sure I could be counted as one of them." She smiled. "Let's see, five years before John came along, two years before 'The Fall' and about a year since he's been back? So about ten years."

"Ten years and you haven't killed him yet? You must have the patience of a saint."

"Not quite. That's John. But Sherlock's a good guy. When I met him, he really didn't have anyone who still gave a damn. You'll pardon me for saying so, but where were his older brothers when Sherlock hit rock bottom? Mycroft told me at my first kidnapping that he had given up on Sherlock by this point, which as I much as I like the guy is still a pretty shitty thing to do. Where was Sherrinford?"

Liya sighed. "Don't judge my husband too harshly, detective. Despite still being heir, he had been cut off from his family for quite some time. He knew that Mycroft had gone into politics but he didn't know anything about Sherlock. It's not as though you can google drug addicts," she spat out. She rubbed her chin.

"Sorry, that was out of line. It's just hard. They have built up so many walls between them that I get frustrated."

Greg nodded. "Yeah. At least with Sherlock, John's broken down quite a few. Mycroft, it appears, is the only Holmes brother still with the walls."

"Which is sad, really. When I first met him, he had the biggest heart of anyone I had ever had the pleasure of meeting. But a few bad relationships, his job, and seeing his family drift apart and it slowly closed off."

"I think it's still in there," Greg commented.

"I think so, too. He just needs someone who can thaw our iceman."

"That would be one very lucky girl," the silver-haired detective murmured.

"Guy."

He looked up, stunned. "Mycroft is gay?"

"Oh yes. Didn't you know?" Liya purred. This was getting easier by the minute. Greg shook his head. She leaned back as the thought simmered in the detective's mind.

He decided it was time to change tracks and fast. "So, who's your King Charles, then?"

"You'll see soon enough," the red-headed artist told him. "He's really shy, so it took a lot of convincing to get him to agree to this. Though, I must admit, I didn't have anyone in mind when I asked you to be my Cromwell." _Well, not quite…._

"Huh. Okay."

They finished their meals and parted at the entrance to the cafe. Greg left to contemplate his new view of Mycroft and Liya was off to scheme.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks as ever to my beta old ping hai, who makes sure that people can understand my special form of gibberish. Seriously, I can't count how many times she's had me fix things so that it made sense to someone other than me.**

I'm in the middle of gigantic move cross country, but I hope to get one more chapter of this out before the big day. 

* * *

Mycroft ran his hands over his face. He was used to dealing with Sherlock and John's brand of aggravation, but his sister-in-law was making his life even more complicated. Liya was a trouble magnet and she was causing him all sorts. She was even more of a handful than the Baker Street Boys; as his surveillance team called his brother and his partner.

The politician wasn't ashamed to admit that he was actively monitoring those two; despite what they thought it was strictly audio, no video. Especially not in their flat. Though he was known to hijack the CVTV feeds near their flat on occasion. Considering the recent change in Sherlock and John's relationship he'd remove the audio once it became intimate. Although in the month since they became a couple it hadn't happened, yet, but Mycroft had high hopes it would change any day now.

Apparently, despite Sherlock's assurances to the contrary at the Palace, the detective was in fact alarmed by sex. Especially sex with a certain army doctor, who in his military days was known as Three-Continents Watson. But John was being especially patient, as far as the politician could gather.

Mycroft was wandering off the track. He was supposed to be concentrating on his sister-in-law. He kept an eye on the Detective Inspector, for…personal reasons. And was not happy to see him enter and leave Liya's studio flat in Soho. On a regular basis.

He assumed it had something to with her art, but still the thought of them as friends frightened Mycroft. She had, after all, been successful in matching Sherlock and John. What if she matched him to one of her artist friends, or worse, one of Sherrinford's actor friends? The middle Holmes brother wanted what his brothers had acquired. Someone to come home to. He worked hard day in and day out and hated the sense of dread he felt every time he left the office knowing he'd be facing an empty flat.

Mycroft wasn't sure how long he drifted off in his thoughts, but he was startled out of his reverie by a call to his private line.

"Hello?"

"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock replied.

"What do you want this time?" the poor politician groaned.

"I need you down here at once."

"Oh? And what pray tell would I want to do that for?" He refused to cater to his brother's whims today. He was far too tired.

"You remember the MOD man you wanted us to find?"

"I'm very unlikely to forget; it was only this morning after all. As I recall you said the case far too dull."

"Yes, well. I take it back," Sherlock said.

"And why's that?" Mycroft was starting to form a picture in his head of what was going on and he could tell it wasn't going to be good.

"Lestrade rang not long after you left with this juicy closed-door murder. I'm sure you can figure out the rest."

Oh, god. The older man closed his eyes.

"Text my PA the address."

Just as he was about to ring off Sherlock interjected, "Oh and Mycroft?"

"What now?"

"Wear that satin blue tie I know you keep in your top desk drawer for tea with the Queen. It goes great with the pale grey suit you're wearing."

The politician looked down in shock, "How did you know I was wearing the grey one today?"

He could almost hear the eye roll. "It's Tuesday, of course you're wearing it," Sherlock drolled.

Mycroft hadn't thought about it, really, but looking back, his brother had been right. Every Tuesday he wore the suit. It was something he would have to think on at a later date. He hit end on his phone only to realize Sherlock had already ended the call.

The older man looked at his current tie, a pale green paisley number which was his favorite and wondered what was wrong with it. He thought it went rather well with his suit and made up his mind not to do what his brother said. So, it came as quite the surprise when he looked down to answer a message from a frantic minister and saw that he had changed the tie to the blue one.

Outside the building where the crime had occurred was one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"Hello, Mycroft," the silver-haired man greeted, sticking out his hand.

The politician shook it, "Gregory."

"You look nice today," Greg said. "That tie really brings out the color in your eyes."  
It had been several years since anyone had gotten the younger man to blush, and yet with a simple, honest compliment, the man in front of him did so with ease.

"Thank you," he indicated for the detective to lead the way, "Has Sherlock informed you as to why I'm here?"

They began to make their way to the crime scene. "He has, yes. And with my workload being as it is, I have to admit feeling relieved. Between you and your brother, I'm sure it'll be wrapped up in time for tea."

Again Mycroft blushed. "Thank you, Gregory." Greg flashed him his brightest smile.

The politician spotted his brother and made his excuses to the detective to speak with Sherlock. Greg nodded and answered his phone as it rang just as the middle Holmes brother walked off.

"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock drolled. He looked over his brother and smirked. He noticed the tie and chose not to mention it. Instead he said, rocking back on his heels, "Did you know that whenever you see Lestrade, there is a 67.54% chance it's a Tuesday?"

Whatever snarky comment he was going to make died on Mycroft's lips. He sputtered as he fought to get his brain to start up again. So, he was grateful when John came up and said hello.

"Good afternoon, John," Mycroft replied.

John looked around the politician and smiled, "Hey, Greg." Mycroft took a deep breath, counted to ten and turned around to see the silver-haired man coming up to them.

"Hey, John," the detective said as he stopped in front of them. "That was Superintendent Gregson. Apparently, they are handing over the whole case to Mycroft. But leaving me on as police liaison, working directly with him."

"Well then, Detective Inspector. If you'll come with me, we'll get this all sorted." Greg nodded and the pair of them wandered off, Greg bringing Mycroft up to speed and Mycroft spouting off deductions.

Once they were out of ear-shot Sherlock made a call.

"Tobias? Yes. Thank you. I'll consider us even. Yes. Good-bye, Superintendent."

He was placing the phone in his pocket when he spotted an irate Sally Donavon coming his direction, with Anderson in tow.

"Oi! Freak!" Sherlock rolled his eyes at her opening salvo.

"Hello, Sally."

She scowled and jerked her head in the direction of his brother and her boss. "So, who's that then?"

"As ever, sergeant, you see but you do not observe."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she huffed.

"Merely that if you had paid attention at all, you would recognize him from his previous appearances at crime scenes. As to who he is, he is the most dangerous man you'll ever meet, the British government, and my brother."

"Oh, god. There are two of you?" she complained. "What's he doing here, then? Come to check up on baby brother, then?"

"No. Our victim is Henry Wallace Gaysford, MOD. And I say ours, but he's no longer your problem. My brother has come to take over your case."

"He's come to do more than that, judging by the way he was leering at _my_ boss." Sally retorted.

John laughed. "He wasn't leering." He turned to Sherlock, "Could you imagine? Mycroft? Leering?"

"Indeed. My brother would never do something so base."

At this comment Sally's patience reached its breaking point. "Whatever. You just keep him away from Lestrade, you hear me?" She stormed off leaving Anderson behind.

"Well, that'll be difficult considering they'll be working together on the case," Sherlock shouted after her.

John and Sherlock chuckled, but Anderson had yet to follow her.

"Um…well. I'd just like to say a few things, then I'll be out of your hair."

The two other men shared a look that clearly said 'Okay…where is this going?'

"Right. Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my role in the incident with Moriarty. I was jealous and it clouded my judgement."

The dark-haired detective blinked in surprise. "Thank you."

"Secondly, I wanted to congratulate you on your recent relationship change. It can't be easy for the two of you, even in this day and age. Oh, and of course, winning the pool helped."

"The pool?" John asked.

"The betting pool on when you two would get together. I was the closest, being only a few days off."

"Right…" John trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with the thought of people betting on his relationships.

"Anyway," Anderson pressed on. "And lastly, while I may not be as clever as the Sherlock Holmes, I'm not stupid. If your brother, Mycroft you said?" John nodded.

"Right. If Mycroft was leering at Lestrade, then Lestrade was ogling right back. Now, I don't know your brother very well, but Lestrade is stubborn to a fault. Makes him a good cop. And if this Mycroft is as stubborn he is, neither one is going to make the first move. Am I right?"

John blinked and had the strangest feeling, like he had stepped into an episode of the _Twilight Zone_.

"Yes," Sherlock muttered. "For once in your life, you're right."

"Thanks for that. Anyway, the reason I'm bringing it up, is I know you guys are working to get them together and I want to help. After the whole blow up with Emily, he needs someone in his life. She had the gall to tell him it was his fault. Whether it was his fault for the affair or his fault she got caught, is anybody's guess."

Sherlock rocked back on his heels. "Knowing what I do of the woman, I'm willing to bet on the latter."

Anderson smirked. "Sounds about right. The point is, if you think Lestrade is good enough for your brother and vice versa, then I want in. I'll do whatever you want."

For a second there both the forensic technician and the good doctor thought Sherlock was going to say something horrifically rude, but the curly-haired detective surprised them both.

"Well, considering, Sgt. Donavon's reaction just now, if when asked, would you get her out of the way?"

Anderson rubbed his chin that still sported the beard he grew while Sherlock was away, only now it was neatly trimmed. "I think I can do that. Haven't been together for awhile, but we're still on relatively good terms. I'm sure I could come up with something."

"Thank you again." Sherlock turned to leave and then turned back. "By the way, Anderson. I like the beard. It looks good on you. Makes your face not so…narrow." John hadn't been this shocked since that one Christmas when Sherlock apologized to Molly.

Anderson laughed at the strange almost-compliment. "Thanks." He stuck out his hand and Sherlock took it, pumping once before they went their separate ways, John following behind his partner.

* * *

**A/N: My Anderson is based on the mini-episode "Many Happy Returns" with the beard he's sporting in the documentary they showed on PBS last Sunday. It's similar to the picture they have on his IMDb page. And he does look so much better with it.**

And because I haven't seen the new new season yet, his attitude is based on speculation on my part. But it won't be changed if Anderson turns out to be the same ass he was before. This story was always going to be AU. It just becomes more so once I watch the new episodes.

I still hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless. 


End file.
